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понеділок, 3 липня 2017 р.

Carlo Parcelli - Wakey! Wakey! #6

Carlo Parcelli studied for many years with the Joyce/Wake scholar, Dr. Rudd Fleming, who translated Greek drama with Ezra Pound while Pound was incarcerated at St. Elizabeth’s hospital here in Washington DC. He has published two books in the style of Pound’s Cantos, ‘Three Antiphonies’ and ‘Fernparallelismus’. I have also published a series of 88 monologues, ‘The Gospel According to Simon Kananaios’ based on David Jones’ monologues of a Roman principalis in his volume ‘The Sleeping Lord’. I have a forthcoming epic poem about a fictitious First Century Roman cynic philosopher called ‘Canus Ictus in Exilium’ (Dog Bite in Exile). My work, generally excerpted, has appeared in a number of journals and I have performed my work, especially ‘The Gospel’, at dozens of venues. I am currently an editor at FlashPoint magazine <http://www.flashpointmag.com/>, an online journal largely devoted to high-Modernist poetics.

***

wakey!wakey!

(after ‘Jaysus’ James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake)

O Ma Dammerung, pluerile Anna Laffia

In fleck of light a parsing funcy

Drainx a gobblup a drams wif the stout Mr. Chumpty,

And not ta fun shun there be a bit a Frau licking

By the frog lurking Herr between her Frare loins

And it baget a right jhoice hose, Anna.

The Sighckle a Life, the Moor the Manny and the Pluerale.

And the agin’ stat a flow Erin’s death

Not yet literallalliezed but sunmirazed

In prick a light that match the mucharoom.

The warvle is cumpartical with the nardle,

And so Chumpty’s premate facia

Linguers. longhairs, alonghers. Wan Annon Laughia,

Pure a bile, herswuite quivereign shady loianes,

Kapt amonkgst the hallowest a OSSuaries.

Puer ticklickshn Inay Lovia, runeing her cherry orchid.

Her own hands through his wavy Haar giggled a bit,

As again states obswearve her weigh pour chants

In a salver garbelet a sweet rut whine,

Not ta buy the great be and be,

And a blinket a Light come ta covet a crack in her lid.

And Rosey fingered Dawn,

And Dawn dawdled Dayzie,

Wan Annaliffey a wakes, aroust

By a cock to moarnin’ swound

Of darpled drums with drizil on the Ygg in her cuntenance

But nary a dasign of a sun berm or tainted glosses.

Nighn mounths ago, he bein’ the rouster,

Humpty Chumpty torched her striumphent triangle

Tween her harey hosannas.

This bloody tombe, a caul to arms ta vivasecks Rombe.

All to wakes what wakens to warn!

A slave’s pity a basket borne.

Fate to light that light might scorn

And poets be a Samson shorn.

From dawn Romy and Remi be torn

To proper pisstollas a duelity for loren.

But from Keester ta Bollux,

Reggie and Ron be as Shem and Shaun,

But twogether insefferable as ta be part or pawn.

Abit beckintime, but not pillar opposerites like LIffykles and Hearekles,

Spermed on by the aggeless urge, to sly a goast,

Shim shammin’ by the light a the muon,

Gone fission by cauld fusion’s tort of a mad torque mutter,

Our heross blanch the milky splash a Hera’s paps.

The tale goes, so the wag doegs,

Of the hossipedal born,

The etunnell twins bare thrue, omfellows

Meyerd in the bloody umbrelluckall Cord,

What a world a war be the muck a the meyerish

And mick a sad Cord of a disdrosstful psyclops,

Speaking Mundrawlin a his ungreatvall, mortil breather Quantun.

As able Cain plowts ta rue his slights ta hemphigher

And sigher Meyer the Marier.

Two knavery entailigents comb thru me garblelage

Sayin’ get reaggie. Ya juzgado go to the whosegow.

I’ll masque the questions here, Mr. Kray, ya macho freaker.

My dear Ronnie, where was ya on

October forf, 19firtyfree

When the form a Sheets and Sweets,

707 Bollocks Onyx was hubbled?

Me personables was in me requim muvver’s hang cups.

Any whatnesses, Mr. Kray?

Only me bruvver, and a bloody uvver

In the ol’ alley by and by and

Out the barn door sole seekin’

Out me Hilly Muvver’s udders.

What we squeeje frough

Ta the uromora a rashers, sausages and kidney pie.

What Ronnie and me be na more Can and Able

The unbiblical cord ne’r cut even ere unto

The slug what rung out in the Bells.

Nah like them guinea blokes,

Ronulus and Regimus, Ron and me be as two peas in a pud;

Not two R’s on a rood. Not a cross word between us.

Certain the occlashunall barney like them Cans Ass bruvvers,

Oiligeeks Dave and Charlie

Boxin’ wif the B. what accourt evernight on the playns Bill,

Twin yokels what haps zygot inta feistycuffs but

At the country club, back hand fratricide be court side

Wif their Fink Thanks and culparrote allgowith‘ems

And calve or calve nots, ice is the crustian.

It be but a black sigh up ta the strut a the wall

What come between Romuless and Reamus

Soon as wifout a ladder the latter leapt it

And wails of a the wall we here namore

Til Humpsea Dumpsea and the battle a Joracle.

I mean, Ronnie and me bofe relish our pound a flesh,

Braized preferable, side a gravy,

Wif them little roasted potatoes

If ya don’ mind, luv.

So that Cain cord a bean a green grocer

For all we give a fuck.

And drain a cut ta the god

What give the art a choke a good turn.

It makes me blood boil tinkerin’

When down the Blind Bugger pub

After a clean keenin’ a Cornell

Ta advance the public weal,

Them white chappies guffaw

And aye, Ronnie, drub queer and daft

As cloven ta god his judgements be

Solomonized by halft.

Ovidian gods be but balloon toys,

All air and plastic.

What our clang wiffin’ Bow Bells undjure.

Zeusological hardons, to ballish out on YourOpa!

Ta mock Leda swoon and wet can Danae a goldman shower

To mount her banck.

Yet, me but a sample thug wif a potable mug,

A knock off the old block,

A criminal court a goddess, Frances, mine

When David tagged me mug before the older Bailey got a shot.

Reg, we at the Billy Club not take ya ta be the sentimental sort.

So ward ya stash the gear?

What hear now, Link and Iddy flim-flammed their kin.

Pollcat and Keester, rustlin’ some Arcadian cattle,

What the farmers’ mommumount be a litter a rubeye and T-born,

While the latter tuck as a piazza of nicely marbled stairy Gemonian destiny.